Page 160 of The Unfinished Line

“Even you, Ddraig Fach,” her dad had razzed when her swimming prowess had gotten too big for her boots. “Get caught in that, and I’d be scooping you up in England.” Dillon had rolledher eyes, her twelve-year-old ego blustering that she could swim anything.

Turning her attention to the south, where the horizon disappeared across the Bristol Channel, Dillon ventured off the pathway onto the jagged cliff edge. It was her favorite part of the island, the steep rockface giving way to the gaping mouth of a colossal cave stretching deep beneath the ocean’s surface.

The Dragon’s Lair, her father pointed out on her first trek to the lighthouse. He’d spent the afternoon spinning a tale of a fierce sea dragon—the protector of Wales—who preyed on poaching fishermen sailing too close to the Gower.

“What’s his name?” Dillon had worried a loose tooth with one hand while clutching the safety of her father’s arm in the other. Anxious to catch a glimpse of translucent scales, she’d risked a glance over the edge to stare into the black opening of the cavern.

She could still feel the warmth of her father’s strong forearm. See the way he had smiled. “Who said it was a he?” He ruffled her hair. “It’s well known the bravest hunters are female.”

Banishing the memory, Dillon picked her way onto a rocky crag jutting over the water. The wind had risen, stirring the ocean into a canvas of white caps, the spindrift misting her sea-soaked trainers.

Uncomfortable with the height, she dropped to sit amongst the pink blossoms of long-stemmed Sea Thrift and yellow clusters of Bird’s-foot trefoil sprouting from the sparse soil. In a nearby thicket, a joyful birdsong chafed against her unraveling nerves.

She wanted to scream. To curse the boundless beauty all around her.

Angry, she plucked the tender white petal off a bindweed corolla and flicked it over the edge, watching the flower drift into the abyss of the cave’s mouth.

She’d given up. When it mattered most, she’d done what she did best—she’d run away. She’d buckled.

She could blame it on her knee. She could blame it on the agonizing toll the months of recovery and return to form had taken on her body. Or point to the fatigue she’d been battling.

But it was none of that. If she had raced, she could have won. Even hurting. Even tired.

The truth was, she’d simply not been strong enough to handle the pressure.

If the mind is willing, the body will follow. Had that not been the mantra she’d risen to every morning? The proverb that filled her dreams at night? The creed she had lived by? It had gotten her through thousands and thousands of exhausting miles. Through injury. Through burnout. Through sheer moments of misery.

But this time it had failed her.

This time she’d been—shewas—weak. Weak in ways that had nothing to do with her physically.

The media would be on a feeding frenzy. All the doubters, all the haters, all those who’d been waiting, willing her to fail—it was finally their moment ofI told you so.

None more so than Henrik.

Drückeberger, he’d taunted.Quitter. Coward.

And all she’d done was prove him right.

Tearing another petal from the bindweed, she crumpled the delicate flower, bitter at its determination to blossom in the unforgiving terrain.

What did it matter now, any of it? She’d never race again.

For a long time, she sat looking across the channel, thinking about her mam. About the way she fought to hide her quiet disappointment. Her unspoken resentment. And Seren, who was always there to lift her up, never asking anything in return.How tired she must be of catching someone always one step away from a fall.

And then, of course, there was Kam. Kam, who had changed her life, making it all feel worthwhile. Kam, who had gifted her her generous heart, her selflessness, her unending capacity for love—receiving so little in exchange.

But also Kam, who lived in the shelter of her ivory tower, where she could hide behind her optimistic naivety, pretending there were no disparities, no adversities, no unscalable obstacles driving them apart.

Dillon pressed her palms against her temples, trying to clear her mind.

It wasn’t real. A fleeting part of her—distant, stifled, smothered beneath her sinking despair—cried to be heard. These thoughts were invasive. Untrue.

Her mam didn’t blame her.

Seren was strong, capable of supporting the weight of two.

And Kam?—Kam loved her.Fortheir differences.Forthe circumstances that made their relationship unique. She didn’t care about anything else. She just loved her—forher.

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